The Quotation's Relevance to Character
by Magical Shovel
Summary: Do their lives mold to the quotations or vice versa? Each chapter is a seperate drabble pertaining to a character in Repo! Read for reviews please! D8
1. Introduction

Chapter 1: Introduction

A quotation is a mimicry as simply put. They reflect one's overall character. Quotes, in all honesty, are excerpts from one's speech or writing. These lines become of great, forgotten importance to our society. We foolishly try to imitate the quote, believing that it has changed us for the better. It does not change us. In truth, it only impacts us. We are swayed by this great impact. We model or mold our lives, binding us to this beautiful thing. Although beautiful, a quote can be rather dangerous.

They are a reference to our society or to the non-significance in life. They are, often enough, not in reference to a specific person unless mentioned. A quotation is very much like a label. It's a name that can cling to a person. As previously mentioned, they define that human being or humanity in general. Each quote, no matter how ridiculous or irrelevant, relates to humanity. Humanity bred society. A quote is much more than what we think of it as. We simply read the text, carrying on with our lives. We interpret it as we wish.

Now that you're read my personal definition of a quote, we can move on towards the story. Each chapter is a separate story. The one thing that connects them all would be the fact that each contains a quote. Therefore, this will be known as the "Quote Series." A better title will be given. :c

**Disclaimer**: I own noneof the characters from Repo! The Genetic Opera. They belong to **DARREN SMITH** and **TERRANCE ZDUNICH**. However, the definition of a quote and it's meaning is my own. Have you no shame if you steal that much from me!? D:


	2. The Beautiful Boy

Chapter 2: The Beautiful Boy

"_O formose puer, nimium ne crede colori._

_O beautiful boy, do not put too much trust in your beauty." – Virgil_

Paviche Largo was the face of countless magazines. He was a celebrity, because of his position in life. He was a bachelor. He was an heir to a large fortune. Every opportunity was thrust before him. The boy lived a life of fortune. He never once had to experience the misfortune and various pains of life. Pavi was rich and beautiful. What more could he possibly desire?

Now, it seems as if cruel and bitter fate has intervened. The tables have turned. He sits calmly in his muted throne. Long, slim fingers intertwine as his hands fold together. He keeps the chair turned towards the window, leaving him a bird's eye view of the island. His back is turned away from the room and away from the person whom sits in the leather chair.

The young paparazzi nervously taps a pen against his check board. A blank piece of paper rests underneath the metal clip. He doesn't know where to begin and what to ask. It's all very intimidating and new to him. His first opportunity. His first job. He's excited. Hence, his designer heart beats like an inconsistent drum. His glasses droop down the bridge of his nose. He cannot afford contacts or new eyes. Besides, he enjoys wearing glasses even if they do grow tiresome overtime.

Alas, the prince speaks, "Why do you come here?" A simple question. His Italian accent smoothly wraps around each and every word like ginger velvet, caressing the boy's very being. The paparazzi shudders. Haunting yet mesmerizing. He's absolutely compelled, leaning forward in his chair.

"I... I'm here for an interview, Mr. Largo," the lad carefully construes his words. Then, he remembers that this is not Luigi Largo, the more brutal of the two. This is Paviche Largo, the womanizer with flawless looks and of a flirtatious nature. He sinks back in the chair, knowing that Pavi is not looking at him directly. Hence, his back turned. He believes he can relax for the most part.

"An interview, you say. But..." He pauses, "But. You want to know-"

"Er..."

"_Everyone_ wants to know what happen, is that correct?"

"Yes, Sir. Most definitely! The tabloids are crazy about it!" Oh, to be that youthful. That paparazzi had to be an intern of some sort. He is eager for knowledge. It lingers in his excited, gray eyes. Once more he leans forward. He's quite the fidgety lad, rocking back and forth in the leather chair. It's to be expected. He's obviously nervous. The boy scribbles down useless information with his black, fountain pen.

Paviche taps his chin. Normally, many consider him to be a conceited idiot. This includes his brother and his father. He has know idea if Amber feels the same since she is almost always doped up on drugs and surgery. The young Largo is careful upon construing his image. He knows that the lad will record every single word that slips from his scarred lips. He acknowledges that what enters the media permanently stays there.

"What is your name, Ragazzo?"

"It's, uh, Stan, Sir," he tugs at the collar of his shirt. He's sweating bullets. At least, mentally. He has no need to act this way. Yet, Paviche is a Largo. They're the most powerful family in the current decade. They hold control, reign, and sway over all just like the Red Death.

"Well... Stan." A bemused expression falls upon Pavi's face, though the paparazzi cannot see such. He leans back in his own chair, "I will tell you the story, though it is not a long one. I'm sure it will be a bit... How do you put it? Ah, bene. Boring."

"Nothing about you is boring, though!" Stan protests, pushing up his glasses abruptly.

Pavi is flattered, naturally. He is just doing this to get on the raven-haired male's good side. He has no true 'bad' side. Pavi crosses his legs, letting his designer boots glisten under the dim lighting. His fingers gently touch the polished, wooden desk. His room is near immaculate, mimicking his personality. A slim hand rests underneath his silhouetted chin. The ornate mirror lies on top of the oak table.

"Gratzi, Stan, gratzi. First, I will dismiss the rumors. I did _not_ get acid thrown onto my face, because of a crazed ex-lover. My 'accident', so they say, has absolutely nothing to do with acid. I did _not_get trapped in a fire, because of some jealous, cheap impostor. Had that happened, the Pavi's entire body would be scarred. I would rather _die_, then be absolutely hideous. Thirdly, Fratello, Luigi, did not 'stab' the Pavi's face. Though Luigi is violent, he has never once resorted to harming my face. Had that been the case, I have a lovely bottle of cologne to keep him at bay."

The reporter nods, furiously scribbling down each word. All becomes important. One word can not be excluded. Each one holds it's own significance and most importantly, the truth. Stan nods every now and then as Pavi speaks. His gaze remains intense, "Then, what _is_ the truth, Mr. Largo?"

"La verità?" Pavi lightly enquires.

_Uh... I'm gonna assume that means truth. 'Cuz I don't know a minute fraction of Italian. _Stan nods, "Yes."

"I wanted to please Papá. That was all I wanted to do..." The smooth Italian's voice quivers, sounding unbearably childish. He pauses, "But no. It was more than that. The Pavi yearned for genetic perfection." Stan arches a brow in his own confusion. _Okay, so he's got flaws. That's human. _Paviche continued once more, "I trusted myself. I trusted him."

"I see."

"He promised the Pavi a new face. A most, beautiful face that would make all swoon and gasp. And I... believed Father. I foolishly campaigned for 'Replace Your Face," Paviche tosses his hands in the air as if it is a motion of defeat. It is not by any means. The paparazzi aches to ask more, to write all that Pavi spills. He refrains himself, having some manners in this day and age.

"That reminds me of a quote, Mr. Largo."

"Oh?"

"Yes, by a philosophe, Virgil, or something along those lines."

"How does it go, Ragazzo?"

"Oh, beautiful boy, do not put too much trust in your beauty."

He giggles, finding amusement in Stan's words. The giggles escalate to maddened laughter. His slim fingers tangle in his endless locks. Stan frowns, combing his own hair out of his face. He didn't find it funny. He finds it... philosophical or something along those lines. He has been paying too much attention in his Humanities course.

"Those words don't sway the Pavi, Stan. They have no meaning to me."

"Mr. Largo..."

"Si, Stan?"

"Did your father ever fulfill that promise?"

"Perdon?"

"Did he ever grant you a new face...?" The words sounded so strange. They're worthy of a horror movie.

"Look at me!" Paviche seethes, twirling around to face Stan. He is maimed. His face is an ill shade of crimson. Metal clips surround his once beautiful face. Blue eyes seethe with rage that should only be capable upon Luigi's behalf. He slams a fist down upon his antique mirror. It cracks so easily, so delicately like one's nature. With merry amusement or taunting, he picks up a shard. Blood fervently dribbles from his sliced fingers, "I'm hideous! I'm a monster, Ragazzo! Un monstre! But you! You have a face that is quite handsome. Girlish even..." A smirk worthy of a devil crosses his red lips.

Red. Everything is red. Stan shrinks back in horror. He holds a hand up in his defense, "Please, Sir. You're not... well... You'll regret this. You don't know what you're doing.. Oh God! Please don't kill me!" Words flow from his mind. To Pavi, it is inconsist, incoherent babble. He ignores the lad's useless pleas. Down. Down. The shard descends. Blood splatters. It taints the very atmosphere. The boy's screams eventually die down to a muted whimper. He cowers like a wounded canine, keeping to himself.

The notes, the paparazzi's drabbles, have been tainted crimson. Paviche holds up the boy's face against his own in victory. The smell of the metallic substance fills his nostrils, but he could care less. He gazes into the remaining shards of the mirror. The madness- No, the darkness, lingers in his orbs, giving them a cobalt appearance. Pavi laughs at the boy, "Foolish. You shouldn't have let your guard down, Stan. You're a fool. My beauty is my namesake and I trust _nothing_ else."

**Author Note**: Oh my. Oh me. I didn't type Pavi's accent! I thought it would ruin the mood... D8 Thus, I tucked in snippets that said he spoke _with _an accent. Translation: "Ragazzo" means "Boy" or so the free translation sites tell me... And I doubt that 'monstre' means 'monster' in italian. That piece was german. SO, PAVI KNOWS A BUNCH OF LANGUAGES I GUESS. -Fail on my behalf.-


	3. The Caged Bird

_"We think caged birds sing when indeed they cry."_

-John Webster

Magdalene DaFoe was a woman of undeniable talent. She received a stage name, Blind Mag, simply because of her past. She climbed her way up the ladder just as Rottissimo Largo had. Her voice was a gift given to her by the Gods. She held beauty and charm. It was no wonder that she was the voice of reason, the one of GeneCo. Her face graced the wicked island. Air Raid Sirens and floating screens displayed her image and music for all to hear.

She pours her heart and soul into each song. Each song makes her grow more weary by the moment. Slowly, she is withering like a decadent rose. Soon, her contract will expire. Magdalene is bound by the chains of fate, having no choice but to sing for the Devil, Himself. Instead, she continues to excel through her talent. She sings... And sings... And sings... Each opera. Each concert. Each charity event. They all blend together, though the lyrics and languages differ.

Tonight, she drives home from a charity event in the black limousine. Tomorrow, she will go perform at an opera. It is not her last, but one of many more to come. Her contracts has but a while longer. The chauffeur glides past the graveyard as Mag solemnly gazes out the tinted window, resembling her tinted life. She can see a cloaked man with her GeneCo prized eyes. Without a doubt, she dismisses it as a grave robber. The vehicle passes Marni Wallace's mausoleum. A wave of grief plagues her mind, though she can't comply herself to look away.

Mag was Marni's best friend.

Marni had meant the world to Mag. She misses her friend terribly. They had done much and shared much throughout their time together. Marni had been the one to grant Mag these eyes. _These disgusting, repulsive... Inhuman... Glowing orbs..._A sick feeling swirls in her gut as she pushes the feeling deeper into her very existence. Alas, the limousine pulls up to the familiar building that holds sway over all. GeneCo happens to be the biggest biotechnological corporation out there these days. Every time that name is mentioned, it chills Mag's blood. It's a work of monsters. She's sure of it by now. She keeps her spirits high for some foreign reason.

Her eyes connect with Rotti's children and she looks away. There was a time when they were very young and innocent, prone to this world. Not anymore, however. The world and their father molded them into what they are today. They only became cruel, ill-hearted creatures to put up with the world's brutality. Pale fingers move to comb a lock of dark hair behind her ear. Her chest heaves with a fragile sigh as she makes way to her room. There's no need to bid adieu to the King of GeneCo. She holds no feelings for the man. She never did. That had been Marni's case. Never Mag's.

As she walks, she can't help but to feel as if God made her of blown glass. Each movement she makes is one of a tedious nature. Pain seems to be her companion these days. Now, it seems as if one thing will make her fall to pieces, shattering like the fragile being she is. Magdalene closes her bedroom door behind her. She's sure to check it, knowing if she does not, someone will be bound to barge in. She knows Rotti's kids far more than he could ever come to comprehend them.

And so she sits in her gilded cage. Her life may be glorious to others, but it is Hell for her. Her elbows remain propped on her ornate table as her hands rest on the back of her neck. Her eyes connect with the stranger in the looking glass. A blueish hue like the medical drug, Zydrate, emits from those orbs. They are not her own. They never were nor will they ever be. Her heart remains pinned to her sleeve for all to sneer at. She's fragile, yet she manages to cope from Marni's loss much better than Nathan could ever. He's a broken man just as she is a broken woman. Though the stranger in the mirror... She can connect to the forlorn, lost look on her face.

The tears slowly pour down her face at first. They make a point to highlight her cheekbones and she almost curls her lip at the thought. Mag lowers her head. She can't bear the thought of confronting that stranger any longer. Her cries steadily crescendo just as her songs do. She cannot control her sobbing. After years of pain, it all manages to slip out on this night for no reason other than having passed that dreadful mausoleum. Muffled cries pass through the threshold of the door.

A new recruit roams the halls of GeneCo. They're eerily silent. Truth be told, it frightens the youth. Her heart ensues an irregular pace. She's heard stories, rumors... All revolving around the Largos. She's a young GenTern, still so naive, and she pauses. _Gosh. I sure hope that Miss DaFoe is alright. Hope Mr. Pavi Largo didn't try anything..._ A haunting tune rings like a church's bells. The GenTern, quivers, edging towards the door from which the noise emits. She raps upon the door once, oblivious as to whom sobs from within.

Again, she knocks. This time there is a response. The threshold is broken and the door opens. Blind Mag gently wipes at her eyes with a black cloth. The GenTern shifts in her footing. She didn't know who Blind Mag was. She'd only heard her voice on the monitors that held sway over the island. It expresses her naivety all the more. She shyly glances away from the opera singer.

"Is something the matter?" Mag inquires gently. Her voice is smooth, tinted with an accent.

"Uhm... Uh.. Well. Golly, Ma'am. I heard some noise. Made me a bit nervous. I didn't know that you were crying. Are you alright? Mr. Largo didn't try anything, did he?" She's a true Southern Bell. Mag can't help but to smile at the girl. She hasn't been tainted nor maimed by GeneCo. It's obvious which leads Mag to ponder. Why in Heaven's name is the girl here?

"Oh, yes. I'm quite alright. I'm sorry," She chuckles, leaving the girl with a confused expression. Mag can't believe the concern that dwells within the GenTern. What the young woman had next to say, sent Mag into a small fit of girlish giggles. She wiped the lone tear of laughter from her eye, "No. None of them have tried anything. They'd be foolish to do so or at least I would hope that much, Child. What is your name?"

"Nancy, Ma'am."

"Well, Nancy. It's a pleasure to meet you," Magdalene bows her head and a warm smile crosses her painted lips.

"Oh! It's nice meeting you as well, Ma'am!" She beams happily.

"Tell me, Nancy. What brings you here? I can tell by the way you act you're not like most girls. You're... different, but oh! I mean that in the fondest way possible! What I mean is that you haven't been scathed by surgery... Or Paviche." the last of her words were quite low, practically inaudible. Nancy blushes at Mag's words, clamping her head together. Her red locks are in a boyish cut, bangs swept to one side. The GenTern's attire doesn't quite suit her nature.

Green eyes peer up at the figure, "I did it for my family, Ma'am. True, I don't need surgery and drugs disgust me. I figured by getting an appreticeship here in Sanitarium, I could slowly work my way up the ladder, y'know?" Mag nods, understanding quite well.

Nancy continues, "From there, I figured I could work my way up being a real nurse, helping a surGEN or two, Ma'am. I just want to support my family and we figured this would be the best way... You changed the subject, though! I came here to check on you! Not me!" She waved her arms excessively, speaking with her hands. Mag smiles. Nothing of this girl reminds Mag of Marni, but she feels the start of a friendship.

"I assure you that I'm quite well, Nancy. Some may consider crying a weakness, but it is a considerable strength. Remember that, Dear. I, do, thank-you for coming to check on me. Such kindness is rare these days. May I offer you a ticket to tomorrow's performance at the Opera? It's the least I can do to show my gratitude.''

"Gosh, that's mighty nice of you, Ma'am. I... I really look forward to it!"

Time is rather manipulative in it's ways. Now, the opera is here. The GenTern whom Mag met the previous night sits anxiously in her chair. She dons a simple, green dress that brings out her vivid eyes. She looks over to the gentleman seated beside her. He's regal and dashing in appearance. Handsome. Brown Hair... Clean Shaven... Grey eyes.. A chiseled face... Nancy quickly looks away, putting a hand over her face in mild embarrassment.

He speaks with a low tone, "First time at the opera, Miss?"

"Um..." _How did he know!? He's gotta be a mind-reader! Oh wait... My facial expressions...._She blushes fervently, "Y-yes. What about you, Sir?"

"Oh, I've attended a generous amount of times. May I ask your name?"

"Nancy Sovern. Yourself, Sir?"

"Nikolai Reise."

They shake hands and the conversation flourishes. It seems as if they share quite a bit in common. Namely, anything that happens to revolve around medicine or pharmacology. What seems like hours only happens to be a matter of minutes. Time happens to tinker in funny ways. It grabs a hold of people, adjusting their strings. Time holds true reign over people. It was nor never will be fate. Fate is for those whom are ill at ease with their lives.

The lights dim until the room is black. All remains silent. A bright light flares upon the stage. Blind Mag, so she is called, is perched inside a golden cage. The irony is rich. All eyes fixate on her. Mag knows, quite bitterly, that the idea was Rotti's doing. It is a reminder. _Know your place. Keep your space. _She mentally sneers upon recalling his words. She angles her head in a direction that compliments her. In all reality, she's shifting through the crowd, pinning familiar faces. Mag smiles upon spying the young GenTern, seated next to the surGEN. She's not typically the one to play matchmaker... Pain strikes her chest as they remind her of Nathan and Marni.

Magdalene tips her head towards the blinding lights, embracing them as if they were Heaven's grace. She sings a glorious tune. One that depicts her as a swan, captured by a brutal hunter. It seems odd, eccentric even. The swan goes on to sing about her gilded life and how she dreams that she will find her eternal mate. It truly is beautiful... Oh, how the tears stream down Mag's cheeks once more. She can't help herself. The audience claps, dismissing it as grand acting.

Nancy knows it's not. It bothers her. She tilts her head downwards, pursing her lips. The young woman neatly folds her hands together, taking this opportunity as a moment of silence. Nikolai looks over at the GenTern with an arch of the brow. He gazes back and forth between the woman on the stage and the one seated next to him.

He masks his mouth with a hand, "We think caged birds sing, when indeed they cry."

"...Golly." Nancy is stunned by Nikolai's words. He's right. She can't help but to pity Mag. She doesn't know a single thing about the opera star's history, but she feels the woman's heart. Her heart throbs as people shoot their cruel arrows. Nancy runs a hand through her crimson locks, eyes wide with the revelation. Nobody cares what happens behind closed doors. Nobody cares about a wounded soul. This world will eat you up if you expose yourself to it.

"Golly, indeed."


	4. The Schizophrenic

Note: I dunno... But I gave 'Repo Man', Nathan's alter-ego, a weiiiird accent. Forgive me for such?

"_Schizophrenia cannot be understood without understanding despair." –R. D. Laing_

Nathan Wallace had once been a promising, young surGEN. He strived for educational success. He found his muse in life itself. It had been his own motivation that he would heal or fix as many patients as he could. The good fellow didn't want the residents of Sanitarium Island to share a similar fate to that of his parents and younger sister. Thus, he was dedicated to his medical occupation. Day after day. Transplant after transplant. He would save these people for he couldn't save the ones he loved.

Then, it happened again. Despair struck once more in Nathan's life. He had to make a difficult choice. It was not a matter of right or wrong, but one of life and death. His beloved wife was dying as was his daughter. Who would he save? Who _could_ he save? That very evening his true love died and his daughter survived. Nathan Wallace was forced to become… The Night Surgeon. A Repo Man. A mask of horror. All of the names still hold their appeal.

The silver, once sterilized blade is now tainted. The blood slowly trickles to the dark pavement of the alley. The screams have died off long ago. The murderer, the _doctor_, looks down at his so-called _patient_, the delinquent. There is no remorse or pity for this lost soul. Now, he does not care. Had it been years ago, he would have been committed to saving this life.

Irony is as cruel and as bitter as fate. It sinks its claws deep into one's soul, turning that victim into a helpless marionette. A low laugh bubbles up from his mouth. It does not sound like the kind-hearted doctor he once was. No, it sounds like that of a monster.

It feels as if he is terribly distant. Nathan is locked away in his own mind, helpless, as the man outside controls him. He wants to escape, but knows that he cannot. He's the pitiable and pathetic one now.

The Repo Man walks away with the delivery within his grasp. The corpse is left to rot or to be desecrated by grave robbers, being the low-life dogs that they are. His steps are heavy thanks to the dark suit. Few people, presumably addicts, walk by him. The fear is in their eyes. They know who he is, _what_ he is. He is the nightmare of their childhood. He is the wolf below their window, patiently waiting to strike.

"C'mon, Nate, get a hold of yourself. You're pathetic, ya know that?"

It's not him that speaks those sharp words. It is someone else; something else that manifests itself within him. Nathan feels a tingle run down his spine followed by an involuntary shudder. He purses his lips, yet no words come from his mouth. It's hopeless to fight against yourself. You always lose.

_No, I'm not… Marni wouldn't have wanted this._

"Yer right, Bud. She wouldn't have. I'll say this time and time again, Nate. She's _dead_. She's never coming back. _Ever._"

He speaks so sharply as if he knows the world for all its cruelties, but does he? He should be a false persona that Nathan created to cope with the loss of his beloved. Somehow the Repo Man has become more than that. Every day, when he looks in the mirror, he sees a monster. It feels like he is losing a part of himself. A part of his humanity goes every day.

Time after time he has to remind himself that Marni is indeed dead. It's been twelve years now and he still cannot grasp the concept. It unnerves him. It leaves his soul at terrible unease. It leaves him to toss and turn at night, howling at the tortorous dreams. They will never leave his mind. Her very prescense still graces his tattered sanity.

Marni painted in red. Marni smiling. Marni laughing. Marni crying. Marni beckoning him forward. Dream after dream. He tosses and turns each night. He refuses to scream, however. He may cry, but he does not scream. He does not need his daughter to hear the pain he is in. It would worry her, trouble her, and even make her cry for reasons she can't quite grasp. This dual personality is correct. Marni is dead. What's dead doesn't have any business to remain alive even though he sees her in Shilo.

Nathan whimpers in frustration like a wounded dog. _You don't know me. You don't understand me. You can't understand what I've been through. I created you. I can kill you._ An inner war rips apart Nathan. It has occurred for twelve years now. He argues with himself and himself, alone, as he walks home. Blue-green orbs are full of grief, guilt, fear, and hate. It's an unhealthy dose of emotions.

"Tut, Nate. Tut, tut. I _know_ you. I sure as Hell don't understand ya, but I very well _know_ ya, Nate. I know _what_ you are and who you are. Yer a monster as plain and simple as day. I mean, who the Hell kills their own _wife_ for Pete's sake. Did you create me? Did you? Ask yourself that. Maybe I created you and I've been patiently biding my time, waiting for the night to take over. You can never kill me, Nate. If anybody's been doing the killing that'd be me 'round here. And the only person who could kill me would probably be your little girl," he laughs loudly as it echoes down the street for those who rest to hear.

_Don't you __**ever**_ _mention my daughter. Do you hear me!? If you ever so touch her... Hurt her! God help me, I'll kill you! If I can't kill you, I'll kill myself before __**I**__ hurt her!_ He snaps quickly to defense. He'll protect Shilo, keep her safe, no matter what the cost may be. Nathan curls his lip in disgust, fists clenching tightly until the knuckles look bleached. His body shudders not at the cold, but at the harshness of his own heart and of the battle within. He pauses in his thought process though he continues to walk. _...You say you know what it takes to break me, but do you? I'm already a broken man._

"...Heh," The Repo Man smirks as he gives a hearty chuckles.

_Speechless, are we?_

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. Guess ya could. You'll be surprised to find yourself dead one day, won't'cha, Nate?"

_Nonsense! You speak utter nonsense!_

"Whatever you say, Nate. Whatever you say..." The Repo Man quickly dissolves and disappears. No, he is not gone forever. It is merely temporary. Nathan knows he will be back. He does not know the exact time and he can't say for sure, but it may be sooner or later from now. Nathan opens the front door, wiping the blood and mud from his dark boots. The candlelight distracts him, leaving a glint to his glasses. He blinks once as he edges towards it much like a moth to a flame. It's his daughter with a book in her small grasp. She looks like she's dozing off. _But how did she get..._

"Shi? Shilo, honey?" His voice is soft, soothing, as he walks towards her. He rests a firm hand on her shoulder as he gives her a gentle nudge. She doesn't flinch, but moves slightly under the touch. Brown eyes slowly begin to open. They gaze hazily at the man above. A small smile edges onto her lips. She's sleepy.

"Daddy? I waited up for you... I was lonely and worried..." She yawns slightly.

"Oh, Shilo. I've told you time and time again that you shouldn't be awake at this hour. You know that I have to go to work no matter the time. It's important. Patients have the opportunity to die or live every day. What are you reading?" At first, he is angry. The anger dissolves upon seeing her tired expression. Oh, to be that young and innocent again. He can't help but to smile. Nathan notes the confusion on her face when he mentions the patients and their opportunity. She won't understand the meaning behind that for years to come.

"It's about insects and the different species."

"And what does 'species' mean again, Shi? I'm getting old, I forget these things!"

"Daaaaad!" She whines, giggling afterwards. Shilo puts on a serious expression in an attempt to act scholarly, "It's like the different types or categories they belong to. You can think of it like a family reunion and how everyone's going to be seated."

"Good girl," Nathan smoothes out her hair. With a sigh, "Alright. Time to get you to bed." She nods as he scoops her into his arms. Shilo yawns once more. He places her on the bed, pulling the covers over her frail, pale body. Nathan places a gentle kiss on her forehead, "Love you, Shi." She mutters the same before dozing off into a happy sleep with girlish dreaming. He gentle closes the door behind him, making his way back towards the living room. The holograms of Marni flickers as he passes by them.

Two dark eyes greet him. It's the mirror. Why does man have an infatuation with mirrors when it only displays outward appearance? Why, if man saw his true face within the looking glass, he would be horrified by the monster that he harbors. Nathan shakes his head at the mocking grin.

The Repo Man does his best to provoke, but to no avail. He steps forward, laughing maniacally at the tired man. Nathan merely sinks into his arm chair with a hand over his face. His chest heaves as he reaches for a book of sorts that he had been reading night after night to avoid the forever tedious dreaming. You can't escape sleep. Without it, all that breathes would be dead. His eyes scan the page that he had left out on.

_Schizophrenia cannot be understood without understanding despair._

Nathan laughs. The tune is low and bitter as it fills his household.


	5. The Addict

"_Fame is a powerful aphrodisiac." –Graham Greene_

Amber Sweet thrived through the life of the rich and the famous. If there was something her heart desired, then she would receive such. She had fame, looks, wealth, and publicity. Amber had what common people yearned for. People envied here, yet she envied those people as well. She always wanted, _needed_ more. Miss. Sweet needed to maintain and update her constantly changing appearance. In all reality, she just wanted _to belong_.

She hadn't always been this way. Amber wasn't even her real name. It's a stage name. Amber Sweet had once been Carmella Largo. It explained how she achieved such wealth and fame. That was the grandest opportunity of being an heiress. She was and still remains a Daddy's girl, although her father sneers at what she's become.

The paparazzi attack with their assaulting lights. The cameras clank loudly as they go off in a repetitive manner. _Flash._ Pose. _Flash._ Pose. A slim hand rests upon an equally slim waist-line. A false smile etches onto her lips. Eyes hold a mocking display of sincerity. Her brothers pose beside her like her now deceased bodyguards. She flips her hair, twirls her body. It's the dance of the famous, avoiding or welcoming in the bright lights.

In an instant, the two separate from their sister. Amber is left alone to swim through the crowd. She slides on a pair of dark shades. Without a doubt, they're from a designer brand just like her beating heart. Stilettos clink after she passed the threshold of carpet and pavement. One last glance to the crowd and she blows a kiss as if she's luring them in. With that, she steps into the limousine.

"Bring me to the usual."

"Alright, Miss. Sweet," the chauffeur complies. The car rears to live, taking off into the black of night. Buildings, both new and crumbling, pass. She lowers her glasses by a mere fraction as she averts her gaze towards the tinted window. There's nothing of interest to her. Amber turns her attention to her hand, examining each crimson nail.

The chauffeur thinks to himself with a slight grimace. _The poor girl's going to kill herself through the fame that they feed her._ He silently hopes that his daughter won't end up like Amber Sweet. His little girl looks up to that woman as well as Blind Mag. He shakes his head. The chauffeur attempts to bring conversation to the dark vehicle, "How do you fare today, Miss. Sweet?"

"I'm fine."

"That's good to hear, Miss."

She nods absently. She could care less what the driver says as long as he gets her to the key location. The car comes to a stop, pulling up in front of an alley way, shadowed by night. It's only illuminated by the flickering lamp post. Amber gets out of the car, sashaying her body with each step. Junkies slink about, sliding to the ground with ecstasy. They look so blissful, so carefree, so… _happy_. No, that's not it and she knows it.

Why does she associate herself with these people? Then, she remembers.

"GraveRobber… GraveRobber… Sometimes I wonder why I even bother," her voice is hypnotic and equally alluring. It's as sweet as honey, luring in the flies that linger about. Her hand remains attached to her hip like that of a doll's. Finally, the figure that she directs her attention to picks up on her tone. He tauntingly smirks, holding the gun away from her.

"Don't tease me, GraveRobber!" Her tone becomes both shrill and furious. It's the effects of being addicted. Addiction changes the structure of the brain and how it works. In other words, the person is never the same once they suffer from whatever the influence might be. They're a shell of what they once were, feeling incomplete without that particular substance that keeps them ticking.

"Calm down, Miss. Sweet," the peddler's voice is suave, smooth, and seductive. Had he been a business man in this lifetime, he would have been most successful. The lighting of the moon seems to bring out his pale features. Blue eyes twinkle with mirth. He truly enjoys teasing the addicts. They can't resist. They never can. That is the greatest thing about the business. One hit is all you need for them to be disposed to it.

"Give me the glow! Stop messing around!" It's a demand. She is no longer the innocent girl that she had once been long ago. She's faced changes. If those changes are for the better or the worse, that is of her opinion. Her face is a flurry of emotions. Rage. Tension. Depression. Envy. Greed. Grief. It's every single negative feeling that you can think of. Then, there is a loss of innocence.

"Pushy, aren't we? It's because you need your fix, isn't it?" She nods in response. He continues to speak, "Well, it seems as if you've been trying to go without Zydrate a bit too long, hm? That's what you get. You try to escape its grasp, but you can't. People always come back. You can never leave. There will always be a relapse. Your body will _never_ be sober. That is the cost. It's the price all of these people pay for coming to me. Now, won't you pay me?"

Amber scowls, stomping her foot on the ground. Her hands curl into loose fists. Oh yes, she's bitter. She's angry. She only has herself to blame in all reality. She never needed surgery. She had been beautiful before it. Oh, don't get anyone wrong here. Amber Sweet is still gorgeous beyond compare, but her soul is not. It's tainted with filth. It'll never be clean again all because of her own demise.

"Money is all you get, because money is all you deserve," she grumbles out. Her brother's are right. He's filth. He, too, is like a drug. She can never leave, never escape, if he is always the one behind the unearthly glow. Amber flicks out the green bills one after another. Their numbers are unreadable in the dark. GraveRobber knows that they're of a large amount. After all, she's a Largo. Largos can afford the world if they so desire.

He chuckles. The pale figure bends forward to scoop the cash into his hands. He crams the money into his pocket, beckoning her to come closer. It all happens too quickly. The gun goes off. The glow of the vial has faded. The drug swims through her veins, stealthily working their way up to her brain. There is no pain. No emotional wrath. Nothing. _I can't feel nothing at all…_

The peddler steps back into the shadows. He's only around when he's needed. Amber slinks to the ground. Her palms scrape against the building's bricks. Her eyes flutter. She turns her head up towards the night sky. The window gently caresses her face. Her breathing has been reduced by a great amount. Being an addict is like being among the living dead. The truth is that she does not care. Zydrate guarantees her happiness, no matter how momentary that may be.

What's funny is that she would never have been introduced to Zydrate had she never been famous. Life works in funny ways, pulling on everyone's strings just like the ill-believed legacy of fate. You are born into the life you have lived, opportunity or not. Yet, it's your decision onto how you choose which path to walk. Amber merely chose the misguided one.

"Miss! Miss Sweet!" A voice calls out through the abyss.

A small smile curls onto Amber's lips as she hazily turns her head towards the general direction of the sound. Her body sways lightly as she tries to stand up. Firm hands grab her wrists, pulling her up. She blinks into attention. The world still remains fuzzy and muted thanks to the drug. It's the chauffeur. _Why's he helping me?_ He speaks, but she can only see his mouth move. She cannot hear a thing he says.

"Oh, Miss. You've got yourself into a mighty fine predicament. I was waiting in my car, thinking about my family, when your brothers call my communicator. They're worried about you. Heck, _I'm_ worried about you. Everyone is. Even includes the paparazzi. My daughter looks up to you. I don't want her to follow in your footsteps if you continue _this_ lifestyle."

Amber laughs, lowly. Her body continues to sway with the excommunications of her brain. The chauffeur helps her to the limousine, easing her into the seat. He commands her to keep her head up and try her best to stay away. _…Acting like he's my doctor…_ She stifles a giggle, looking around with half-lidded orbs. He hands her a bottle or water whilst she drinks from it. Finally, Amber gains a small fraction of coherence.

"Tell her… That fame's no good for her…" She feels sick. Nausea wells in the pit of her stomach. The chauffeur blinks in surprise that she can even speak. Zydrate's been known to affect people's motor skills and so on and so forth. It's a bad drug in all simplicity. It's not good for you. That's why the administration made an attempt to limit the dosage and dilute it. Still, there are the pesky peddlers in the world who sell it as its whole package.

"And why is that, Miss. Sweet?" She gives a little shrug. _How the hell do I know? Isn't it kinda obvious? I mean… I'm all messed up. _Amber consumes more of the precious liquid. Water has never tasted _this _good in her entire life. She sweeps her hair out of her face, trying to form an answer to the seemingly impossible question. Oh, she has plenty of reasons, but her mouth just won't form them. Besides, some of those reasons would be a fatal blow to her pride.

"It messes you up, leaves you in the dust. It even kills you. It's killing _me_. There was a quote or something that Daddy told me a while ago before he died… I tried to shrug it off, thinking it didn't really matter, but he was right; 'Fame is a powerful aphrodisiac.' It blinds you." Step one is admitting. It's a rough revelation that dons upon her. If she continues to live this way, she would very well die. And who would get GeneCo? Her brothers, of course. She shudders at the thought of Luigi and Pavi running the company.

"Well said, Miss. Sweet. I'm glad you're finally seeing through the eyes of those whom care about you."

"Hey… Chauffeur Guy."

"Yes?" He arches a brow, glancing into the rear-view mirror.

"You're too smart to be a car driver. So, why're you one?"

"Let's see. I'm driving around the Largos all day. Its great pay and I'll let you in on a little secret: I'm not afraid of them. You guys aren't monsters even if you're father said so. You guys are just misguided."

"Oh…"

"That and I have a PhD," he crinkles a smile.

Fame is a master manipulator, but you can pull yourself out if you're surrounded by those you love.


	6. The Innocent

"_Innocence is a kind of insanity." –Graham Greene_

Shilo Wallace was a girl with sequestered dreaming. She had been labeled as foolish for wanting to go outside and experience the world. This did make her naïve in some aspects, but she was unaware of the cruelty that people were able to harbor. Thus, she resorted to senseless daydreams for she was not fulfilled by her lifestyle.

Her father protected her, guarded her for one reason alone. He wanted to assure her safety. Her father, Nathan, wanted to keep her away from the darkness and into the light. He shielded her from reality's throes. Nathan never expected Shilo to go a tad insane from being _caged_ as many would put it.

The pale girl flops onto her white bed that is crowded with stuffed animals. A small sigh emits from her petite form. She clutches one of the critters. Shilo sits up, repeatedly tossing it into the air. Boredom flickers within her doe-colored eyes. _I hate this… I hate it all._ In a sudden movement, Shilo jumps up from her bed. She paces like a tiger, back and forth within her prison.

"I can't stand this!" She throws the stuffed tiger (which indeed demonstrates bitter irony). Frustration traces over her facial features. Her jaw clenches and she briskly walks towards the balcony. With a flourish of hands, Shilo pushes aside the crisp, white curtains. Against her father's bidding, she opens the window. The desire to go outside is temptation in its truest form.

Her chest rises with the breath of fresh air. The wind caresses her cheeks. It feels absolutely _wonderful_. Is this dosage of oxygen truly going to kill her? To be honest, she doesn't care. Deep down in her mind, for the first time, she doubts her father's wise words. Her fingers wrap around the railing of the balcony. Her brown-eyed gaze flickers over Sanitarium Island in all of its profound glory. _Is this what freedom feels like?_ No. Yes. Perhaps. She's uncertain.

"Oh, I want to go outside. Outside of this house. Outside of this place. I want to see everything as it is. No, I don't _want_ to. I _need_ to," she speaks to herself. After all, who else is there to talk to without going completely insane? The revelation is a true blow to what Shilo once knew and loved. She comes to believe that she will love the world for what it is, _if_ she can escape the threshold of her home.

Her voice becomes shrill with grief, "Stop it. Don't think of things that way. This isn't _really_ a cage. It's my home, where I live. Dad's just doing the best he can to protect me, but shield me from _what_?" Her fingers run through dark strands of hair. Questions plague her. Her mind is thrown into an overload of senses. She's only experienced the room from her _sealed_ window and the television. One step outside can quickly change everything.

Perhaps it is her father's fatal flaw for leaving the window unlocked. Shilo never made a previous attempt to open it. Out of her own boredom and growing insane did she finally give it a try. Shilo has pressed her luck, but fate seems to be on her side this time.

Air Raid Sirens drift through the cemetery that lingers below, broadcasting messages of importance. Beams of light flash on and off in a repetitive manner. They're most likely a production of the GenCops that keep a watchful eye for any grave robbers in the area. Everything and everyone has a job and it makes Shilo feel… out of place.

_I don't belong… Is that why? Is that it?_ Her lips purse into a frown, spying an odd figure in the distance. The GenCops are nearing closer and closer to the object that turns out to be human with a feminine shape, nonetheless. Shilo leans forward in anticipation. Fear rests in her own eyes. She's terrified for the girl if she happens to get caught. Her heart thuds as if it will tear out of her chest.

"Look out!" Shilo cries out. She quickly clamps her mouth shut. The figure looks up, spying the girl who sent her a clear warning. The female flings the shovel in the opposite direction, dropping onto her knees. The violator clamps her head together as she bows her head in a mock gesture of mourning. It is rather comical, but the guards believe it and run off to find the source of the loud clang.

Then, the woman begins to walk towards the Wallace household, though it's more of a brisk jog. Shilo is taken aback by this. She grows fearful. _Now what? Please don't hurt me. Please don't kill me. Please don't rob me. This is my entire fault…_ Shilo groans inwardly at her momentary stupidity, taking a step away from the railing.

The presumable grave robber, waves a hand at Shilo Wallace. There's a broad grin, like that of the Chesire cat's, plastered on her face. An eye patch covers her left eye. Blonde locks are messily pulled into a ponytail. She's of a tall height, lanky, and although her lone cerulean eye is bright, the shadows underneath tell of a lack of sleep. She calls out, "Hey, Kid. Thanks! Ya really saved me there! Talk about a close one." She wipes at her temple as one would do to signify that the coast is clear.

Shilo nods. She shuffles her weight back and forth between each foot, unsure of how to respond. Other than her father, she's had a lack of human contact. She's nervous. Her heart refuses to slow down. What should she do? Nonetheless, what should she _say_to this stranger whom so happily greeted her?

"You… You're welcome."

"Hey, can I come up? So, I can see ya? My sight's pretty… Eh," she waves her hand up and down to indicate her line of sight.

"Um…" _This is bad. I shouldn't be out. I shouldn't be talking to her. What have I done!?_ Shilo nearly moans in grief, "Sure…"

"You sure? I mean, I don't wanna scare you."

"No, no. Its fine," she feels guilty to oblige. Shilo is going against her father's whims. She knows that this could end badly or it could end alright. She's not sure which path the situation will take and it invokes fear all the more. Her hands nervously tug at the hem of her white dress. She takes a deep breath and braces herself.

Meanwhile, the other woman scales up the pipe that is latched onto the house. From the pipe, she hops onto the railing and finally manages to stand upon the balcony. The woman isn't that much older than Shilo by four years or so. Shilo is seventeen and the woman is probably twenty, twenty-one. She holds out a pale hand towards Shilo; an open gesture.

Shilo is puzzled. What does an extended hand mean? A greeting? Payment? Slowly, Shilo reaches out towards the woman with her own hand. They shake hands and it doesn't seem that strange. In fact, it seems _right_. It feels right, at least. A small smile creeps onto the Wallace girl's face which leaves the other woman to grin all the more.

"I'm Shilo. Who're you?"

"Well, that's a mighty rude question." Shilo blushes at her naivety, "But since you introduced yourself, I _guess_ I can tell you." Her tone is mocking, "Truth is, I don't think it would be safe for me to tell you my name, real or fake. You don't want to get yourself involved in the industry that I work in. It's rather nasty. Unsafe. Dangerous. It may be glitzy and glamorous in the movies, but it isn't here. I'm only a peddler trying to make a living. I don't force the glow onto people nor do I try it myself. They come to me. It's gotta be mutual and they have ta pay in cash. I'm rambling."

"Wha…"

"Listen up, Kiddo. Don't become a Z-dealer. Stay clean. Stay innocent. As for who I am… Eh. The Largos sure as Hell don't wanna know that I'm still ticking. Call me… Claire. Yeah. Claire. Close enough to my real name."

Shilo nods, "But… What's Z?"

"You'll learn soon enough. Those damned Air Raid Sirens ramble about it 24/7. Sheesh, that gets annoying, lemme tell you. Anyway, I'm really glad you caught me out there. I could be dead… Or worse," Claire grimaces at the thought and somehow Shilo can empathize. Shilo nods, sheepishly gazing back towards her bedroom.

"Listen, Kiddo. I gotta run. I can't thank-you enough. I owe you one. Let me give you one last piece of advice. Innocence is a kind of insanity. Take that to heart, alrighty?" Claire smiles once more and with a mock bow, she's off into the eternal darkness. The young girl leans over the balcony's railing one last time before dashing into her room. She hastily seals the windows, pulling down the latch.

Shilo exhales heavily. Never has she made an attempt to do something so… risky. It's unlike her to go against her father's bidding, but the desire was far too great for her to refuse the opportunity. She flops down on her bed, still in a bit of a dazzle. Finally, words return, "Wow." The dark haired girl quickly rolls over onto her stomach, staring at the television's blank screen.

The door creaks open, revealing her looming father. She can see his image cast in that blank screen. She purses her lips and turns around. _Nothing happened._ _If he knew…_ She shudders at the thought. Her father is capable of horrendous moments of grief. Sometimes, if all is silent… She can hear his muffled sobs. It pains her, but there is nothing that she can do.

"Shilo… Honey…"

"Yes, Dad?"

"Did you have the window open? You know it's not safe outside…" Pain flickers in his green eyes. His mouth begins to curve, transforming into a slight frown. Shilo shakes her head in response. She needs a good excuse, a good _lie_ to cover up the daring truth.

"No. I didn't. Maybe you left one of the other windows open? There has been a draft, though…" She trails off. Hopefully, he will believe her. _Please believe me, Dad. Please trust me… I can't have you worry over me anymore. You'll drive me insane. You'll drive us both mad. _And he does. He believes her. Nathan Wallace nods, raking a hand through his hair.

"Yes, that could be it. I _have_ been a bit forgetful. I've had many sleepless nights, because of my thankless job..."

Shilo arches a brow in suspicion, but pushes the fact aside. He's tired. She understands. Her dear father works himself to the bone. Doctors aren't always thanked for their hard work. Nathan mumbles, rambling on about some things of little importance. He kisses her on the forehead and bids her good-night before closing the door. Shilo sighs in relief.

"That was a close one…" Yet, her heart still pounds. She slowly begins to regain her composure. The young woman wipes away the bead of sweat from her brow. She remains troubled, though. She still _wants_ to go outside. She wants to see even more of the world regardless of Claire and her father's warnings and advice. There is something so exhilarating about it all and Shilo can't quite place her finger upon it.

Then, she recalls Claire's words. _Innocence is a kind of insanity. _It's a quote. Shilo's certain of that much. She makes a mental note to look it up one day in the future, but the words are undeniably true. Her innocence and naivety of this world has slowly begun to drive her mad. _She's right. She's right and she doesn't even know it… Or does she?_ Deep down, Shilo knew that Claire was out there, grinning once more like the Chesire Cat.

"I just want to go outside… Outside…"


	7. The Mouse

**Author's Note**: It's been, quite literally, weeks since I last updated this fanfiction. To those whom have demonstrated patience, I thank-you. To those whom have commened, I thank-you. This is the final chapter of the series and I'm glad to hear that so many of you have enjoyed it. It makes me ecstatic. The reason I haven't updated is because of school work and rehearsals for the school play. Anywhosel, enjoy!

* * *

_"Long absent, soon forgotten_

_Out of sight, out of mind_

_When the cat's away, the mice will play." – Proverb_

He was scum to many, but a king to others. This fellow prowled the night just like any other repo man. His cerulean eyes saw the ruins as a playground, an adventure in the making. Oh, he saw terrible things, yet he managed to make the best of it all. He did his best to ignore the slaughter, the deaths, and the failures. It was indeed a post-apocalyptic world and he managed to get by.

He knew he could never ignore the deaths. GraveRobber, as his name implied, as a man who _lived_ for the dead. He would extract the blue nectar from their corroded veins. He had once been a common man, digging ditches and burying the deceased. In a bitter twist of irony, he still made money from the dead. That would never change. Only his name and identity had undergone a transformation. Other than that, nothing changed.

The moon's rays reflect upon the erect tombstones. Some decay just as the corpses below do. The problem is that there are too many bodies to bury. They pile up. Thus, they take a dive down the underground mausoleum, hidden from the public's eyes. The smell remains, however. The stench can be smelled from several yards away. No matter what one does, the putrid odor remains.

The air raid sirens calmly hover around the grounds. A few lights from a GenCop's lantern flicker in a repetitive fashion. Both the dirt and sky are a murky gray as a result from the massive overdose of pollution. Shadows dance and jest. A tree's crippled branches scrape against someone's window.

A hand extends from the center of it all. The pale hand grips a headstone, slowly rising like a creature of the night. Yet, he's note. This figure is very human. He breaks and bleeds like any other. He has his pain as does humanity. A stifled groans passes through his black lips as he hoists himself upon the tomb. It's not quite a headstone, but a cemetery marker. A statue of an angel with arms outspread.

The fellow rests his chin upon the angel's shoulder, hands gripping the splayed arms. It's a bird's eye view of the graveyard below him. He pinpoints the location of each guard, each siren and makes a mental image. There's a carefully construed map that rests in his mind and it's for the better. If he didn't go through all of the necessary precautions, then he could very well be thrown into a damp, cold cell; waiting for death to take its toll upon him.

"One… Two. Four babes. Six in total. Two leaving for the night, two to take their place. Babes remain until they glitch in the morning. Alright. Three… Two… One… Make a move."

At first, this would sound like incoherent babble to any sane human being. Yet, they're abbreviations for his own understanding. The babes are indeed the air raid sirens. The other numbers are the amount of guards and the necessary countdown. Robbing graves is a risky busy. One wrong move and he could easily be shot on sight or so the sign has warned him time and time again.

He pushes himself off the statue, neatly landing on his booted feet. His gloved hand reaches out to grab a shovel that he had purposely left there beforehand. He is fast on his feet ever since childhood. He had to be in order to make an end's meet, stealing bread in order to live. GraveRobber scurries to and fro, keeping an eye out for the next shift to arrive. The metal blade quickly sinks into the damp earth.

His breathing becomes irregular. He's nervous. There's always the thrill of being caught. The whole business is absolutely exhilarating to himself. Quickly, ever so quickly, lumps of dirt are carelessly tossed aside. The body isn't buried all too deep. The gravediggers these days have become quite lazy with their work, he muses to himself on this. It's true. Back when he was one of them, they were both efficient and proper. Now, no one seems to care.

Bodies are thrown into their cold graves without a second thought. No longer are they human beings. They are empty shells, creatures void of life. He shudders at the eerie images strewn within his mind. It doesn't help for him to think this way, but he can't help it. The nightmares and haunting dreams will remain with him until the day he dies. With a grunt, he hoists the body out of its resting place.

A quick flick of the wrist; a thin, wavering smirk is all that is needed. With excessive violence, he thrusts the silver needle up the nostril. The blue liquid is extracted from the cranium and whatever veins haven't decomposed. GraveRobber recalls an old nursery rhyme from his childhood, proving to be oddly ironic. _Worm goes in, worm goes out; worm plays Pinochle on his snout_.

The street drug, known as Z, is then put into a little glass vial. He closes it and that's the magic behind the glow. He efficiently rolls the body back into its tomb and scurries away. He repeats this procedure for several more times. Over and over again whilst the routine remains the same. In a manner of speaking, his belt is full of ammunition. The vials contain that unholy, neon hue.

The pale fellow strolls off. Just as he does so, the next patrol passes by him. With an eerie grin, he salutes them. Clueless expressions muddy their faces as they, too, give him a modest way. The GenCops are quite unaware that this man just made a mockery of all they live for an all that they've done. He merely laughs as he runs towards his familiar turf.

A car siren sounds off in the forlorn distance as GraveRobber steps out of the shadows. He holds his gun in the air in all its temptation and moderation. At first, they arrive one by one. Then, they come in duos followed by trios and finally, droves. That is the repetitive pattern of all addicts. They will always come back, thirsting for more like that of a power hungry man and GraveRobber recognizes this for its entirety.

The familiar moan of Amber Sweet, one of the richest heiresses in the world, greets him. He represses the urge to roll his eyes and grimace. Truth be told, he's been a bit bored by her drunken actions. They're all the same and nothing new. When he first met Miss. Sweet on his new 'job', he was entranced by her. She was his drug and couldn't get enough of her. Now, the tables have taken a turn.

"Pay me later," he calls out hoarsely to her as she slumps to the ground. _The Queen of the Junkies, _he muses to himself_, is at my feet._ The pale man feels like a king, but this does not blind his actions. This job keeps him weary and on the constant look-out. One wrong move is all that is needed for him to bring himself to ruins.

What seems like minutes turns out to be hours. The dawn seems to be on its steady approach. He smiles, so rarely seeing the light of day. In Sanitarium, it's practically impossible. All one ever sees is the lights of night or the fog covered sky during the morning and afternoon.

Then, he remembers that he must return to the confinements of his so-called 'tomb'. Had he the choice to roam the day, he would, but given his profession; he could not. With a stressed groan, he lifts the lid of a GeneCo dumpster. With a cautious look, he hops inside his make-shift home. Being a grave robber comes with a cost. You lose your original home (he lacked one), friends (he had few), family (he didn't have any), and yourself.

GraveRobber is put a mouse in Sanitarium Island's giant playground and he accepts this idea until a young girl encounters him once more. The lid of his coffin is open and his exhausted, cerulean eyes open. Rays of light warm his exceedingly pale face. He resists the urge to make a joke out of his current position (i.e. hissing, using a 'Transylvanian' accent, etc).

A timid, young girl with the eyes of a doe bends over the dumpster with profound excitement and curiosity. A serene smile etches onto her lips, "GraveRobber! At least I know I have one good friend in this place." His mind is foggy and full of confusion. He rubs his head, followed by his eyes. What did she mean by friend? He didn't have any as previously mentioned.

"What're you talking about, Kid? Jeez… Interrupting my pleasant dreaming," he grimaces ever so slightly.

For a split second, she frowns and appears to be crest-fallen. His words don't encourage her to leave. No, they leave her even more determined than before. Her tone is quiet, "I just wanted to make sure that you were real, that you existed, and that you weren't a figment of my imagination."

"That'd be some imagination of yours if you could muster all of this," he wrinkles a grin.

"Yeah… I guess… I just wish everything was a dream. Do you ever think about that? One day we'll all wake up from this existence and snap into reality…." Now, the girl he knows as Shilo Wallace, is oddly distant.

"Sounds like you've been through a hell've a lot kid."

"Yeah…"

"Let me tell you a little something to distract your overworking mind."

"Um, are you going to tell me about that time again when you were hammered and hooked up with-" GraveRobber quickly clamps his hand over Shilo's mouth as he lets out a nervous laugh. _Kids, these days…_ He runs his other hand over his hair. The young Wallace girl squirms away, waiting for the dealer's words of distraction.

"It's some kinda proverb or something. Learned it from someone close to me when I was a kid. It goes: Long absent, soon forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. When the cat's away, the mice will play."

"It sounds… familiar. Like Dad would have known it or have told me it."

"Yeah?"

Shilo merely nods. GraveRobber rubs his chin, hopping out of his dumpster. He can only offer her a meager shrug of the shoulders as they pay their adieus and take separate paths. _When the cat's away, the mice will play. _That line alone remains in GraveRobber's memory to this day. His shadow glides across the road as his heavy boots clunk against the ground. He is but a mouse in Sanitarium Island.

The big cats are GeneCo and all their little friends. It's the mice, or the common folk, that have difficulty making end's meet. Yet, when GeneCo fell, all becomes seemingly just. GraveRobber can't help but to laugh in scorn at the fall of the king. Being a mouse has it's advantages. For each endless night, he dances on the graves once more.


End file.
